by L. J. Woods
I already have one strike on me from Headmaster Shithead … I mean, Beckett. I don’t need another. Not when I’m trying to reign in this scholarship Clara’s talking about.
“I’m defending myself!” Georgina screams.
“Well then it’s a great day to revisit volleyball,” Coach says, dropping her arms when I stop swinging. “I expect a good defence.” She blows her whistle. “Now, get changed and let’s go, ladies! Save that energy for the courts!”
Georgina flips her shiny strands with a tight-lipped smile, heading to her locker. Muttering to mine, I remember the conversation with Clara as I get changed. You can do this. Before heading out into the field, I pull on my lock, double-checking my uniform is safe inside. Clara’s right. I can do this. As long as I stay out of trouble.
Once on the court, it’s clear Georgina’s all talk. Without Lea, she’s a pretty shit volleyball player. While it helps me get through class, it doesn’t stop my mind from wondering where the leader of the Trust Fund Trolls is.
A pang hits my chest. Is she with Damien?
Why do I even care?
Putting my frustrations into the game, I’m playing like I’m trying to win a medal. Every time I hit the ball I imagine it’s Lea’s face and with the team I have, we’re winning the game with ease. With one last spike over the net, Georgina’s team misses and we get the winning point.
Coach blows her whistle. “Good job, Rowland!” She turns to the rest of the class. “Ladies! Showers!” I’m pretty sweaty after throwing my emotions into that game and a fancy private school means I’m looking forward to it. The warm water should be soothing. Making sure to lock my clothes away again, and taking my towel inside the shower stall with me, I start the taps before Georgina can fire a snarky comment.
Warm water runs over my body, taking away the clamminess and sweat built up on my skin. Leaning my head back, I let the water go over my curls and face, warmth hitting the shaven side of my head. The water enters my mouth and when I move to pull my fingers through my strands, it starts to feel cold. Thick.
“The fuck …” When I open my eyes, it stings, my vision red and it’s not because there’s anger fuelling inside me. With one eye squinted open, I see red everywhere. On the white stall walls. On my sandy brown hands. All over my body.
There’s a bit of laughter that comes from outside the stall before the sound of shoes pattering away. Dark red liquid streams from the tap and … is that blood? Turning off the shower, I take a step back, stunned. Pulling my fingers to my nose I can’t make out the smell but when I bring it to my tongue … Paint?
Assholes.
My jaw clenches and I pull the shower curtain back with force, but no one’s there, the room empty. At least I have a towel.
Walking to my locker, I know I’m leaving a trail of red footprints behind me but when I see Georgina and her friends, I lift my head high. They have their backpacks on, leaning against a row of lockers. She smiles, letting out a laugh as she snaps a picture with her phone and now I’m getting deja vu. “She even looks like a murderer. You deserve to be back on the blacklist. Congratulations.” Georgina’s titter echoes as she makes her way out of the locker room with her friends and I’m left standing there. Drenched in red.
When Coach comes out of her office she looks at me, arms dropping before she shakes her head. A finger comes to the middle of her forehead but she doesn’t say a word when she walks away.
Of course.
With the locker room to myself, I take my time pulling on my clothes. The paint in my hair and on my skin leaves red all over my uniform and it looks like I’m ready for Halloween. At least I’ll be warm this time, but note to self: no more showers at school.
The bell rings when I leave the locker room and I head straight for the front doors. After the day I’ve had I’m not hanging around. I just want to get home.
I hear Isaac’s voice when I’m at the top of the stairs, “Speak of the devil. She looks like one too.” Damien and Christian stand next to him and seeing Damien standing there with that I-don’t-care look on his face boils my insides, heat in my cheeks. I can’t help but approach them, a bunch of red and black hair over my eye, paint still on my bony knee.
“Shit,” Christian’s voice is next, all three of their eyes moving around my body but my gaze is on Damien’s. He pulls his foot off the wall as I approach like he knows I’ve got something worth hearing.
“You’re pathetic,” I spit, the tip of my boots against his. I look up at his eyes and try to ignore the flutters in my stomach, the knot that tightens the longer I stare.
“Not as pathetic as you look right now,” he smirks and that only fuels my anger, my hands flying to his hard chest. He grabs me by the wrist, his hold tight and cold and I wish it didn’t send a burning heat through my skin. His eyes land on my watch again before his brows lower. “This is your last warning.”
“Or what?” It’s like deja vu, except this time, none of them are getting away with it. I narrow my eyes, the fight in me surfacing again. But I try to level with him, if he can’t give me his heart, he can give me some information. I fight against his hold, but fuck, he’s stronger. He hardly moves while my boots skid against the concrete. “Why do you want me gone? Do you know something about my parents? Is that why you’re pushing me away and turning to your old tired tactics?” His grip tightens and I’m not sure if I’m onto something or if I’m just making him angry. “Or are you just a pussy?”
There’s a tingle between my legs, a twist in my core. Why does the idea of an angry Damien King excite me? Do I crave his attention that much? Or am I as fucked up as he is? I fight through my urges, still trying to get to the bottom of this. “You’re hiding something,” I say. “Is that why you act like we didn’t—”
“You know what you did, Medusa. Stop acting stupid.” He pulls my ear to his lips, and my breath hitches in my throat. Lowering his voice, it’s still crystal clear when he says, “Or did you not kill my father?” With a shove he pushes me back, unleashing me from his hold, from his warm presence and I have to make sure I don’t fall back as I try to regain my composure.
When I do, I feel that tingle in my nose, that glug in my throat. But I only let five words fly, “Go to hell with him.”
* * *
Lauryn Hill attempts to soothe my woes, The Catcher in the Rye in my face as I lay across my white sheets.
I’m trying to get lost in the words of Salinger, but it’s hard. My phone keeps taunting me from where it sits on my bedside table, wondering if his name will light up the screen.
I’m not sure why.
Not like I can look him in his face again.
Or did you not kill my father?
That morning comes back to me, my skin getting cold. Shutting my eyes I try to tune out the memory invasion. No. I didn’t. He’s the one who convinced me I’m not a murderer and now he’s trying to make me out to be one. Sick fuck.
Reading the same words over again, I can’t stop thinking about it, my head far away from this book.
My phone buzzes and it makes me jump before I reach for it like a fiend.
Christian.
It’s his fifth call since we got home.
Throwing the phone across the room I tell myself, “No more distractions.”
The songs on this playlist don’t help. “Can’t take my eyes off you?” What the fuck is that shit? Bella and Willow giggle and chat away in her room while I change the song to something a little more energetic. An iconic track from The Ramones. Trying to settle back into my bed, curls pressing against the soft pillow, I attempt to focus on the words. Again.
“Ew, Low! Not that!” Bella giggles through her words, the sound of her laugh flowing in through the connecting bathroom.
Shaking it off, I focus on the words again but their laughter makes me read the same sentence another four times.
“How about this?” Willow asks.
“Shorter.”
Willow laughs and this time my b
ook goes plunging into the sheets. Huffing, I hop off my mattress, getting ready to close the door to the bathroom. I swear I’m not jealous of Willow getting along with the in-crowd. She’s more of a fit for it than I am but I need to concentrate if I’m going to nab this scholarship.
“Yes!” Bella squeals. “Jasper is going to lose it when he sees you in this.”
My hand stops on the knob, stomach tightening.
Jasper? Who the fuck is Jasper.
Who even names their kid Jasper? And lose it? No one’s losing anything around my sister.
Storming through the spacious white bathroom, clothes from our closet lay everywhere. Hair and makeup supplies sit between it all, scattered all over our shared counter. When I get to Willow’s door, there’s pop music playing out of her speakers. Wait, is that Taylor Swift?
Leaning against the doorframe, they don’t realize I’m there right away. I’m too in awe to say anything, my sister standing in front of Bella in a leather miniskirt and a mesh top. Sparkly black bra on display.
“Jo,” Bella says, eyeing me up and down. That’s a look she must have learned from Nate because it comes off as catty as he is. She doesn’t even have to say anything to know she’s judging my plaid PJ bottoms and tattered Woodstock shirt. “Doesn’t Willow look great in that?”
“If she’s starring in a rap video.” I arch an eyebrow her way, Willow’s cheeks reddening.
Bella claps. “Then it’s perfect!”
Willow kicks off the sky-high heels on her feet. Black and shiny like her bra. “We were just …”
Crossing my arms, I wait for her answer. I’m not trying to be judgemental, I swear. But I am curious. She drops her shoulders, sighing, “Okay don’t get mad but …” She squeezes her eyes shut. “King’s having a party.”
“Damien?” I’m not sure why I’m asking for confirmation. I already know.
Damien’s having a party like it’s a regular weekend night. Like his dad didn’t just die. Like he didn’t just humiliate me in front of everyone for the gazillionth time.
Willow must see my jaw clench, my hands turning into fists because she sighs.
“Told you she’d be mad,” Bella chimes.
“I’m not!” I am.
Willow doesn’t believe me, straightened hair falling over her shoulder when her head drops to the side. “Really? You’re not upset that I’m going to King’s party?”
Would I be narcissistic to think that he did this to spite me? Or would that be classic Damien? Freshmen don’t usually get invited to these parties and I know he’s calculating enough to get Willow to rub it in my face. “When did he invite you?”
“He didn’t, I did,” Bella pipes up again, fixing her hair in Willow’s mirror behind her door. “We’d invite you but,” she shrugs, eyeing my outfit again. “You know.”
Willow shoots Bella a look before she picks up the heels from the floor. She looks older than I do, all dolled up and girly. Her big brown eyes look even brighter, lined with eyeliner, sparkles on her eyes. “I won’t go if you’re going to be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad!” The aggression in my voice doesn’t help my case, Willow raising an eyebrow. I deflect, “How are you getting there? Don’t say Bella, I know she doesn’t drive.”
She hesitates before she says, “We’re getting a ride.”
“From who?” I drop my head to the side in the same fashion. “Freshmen don’t drive.”
“We’re getting a drive from a sophomore.” Willow rolls her eyes, glancing at Bella. “Don’t worry, it’s a girl!”
For some reason that makes my muscles relax. At least they’ll be in the hands of an older female student. “Fine. Keep your phone handy, okay?”
“Really?” Willow beams, her bright brown eyes glowing in delight. She runs up to me and hugs me and it feels good. So good. Her hair smells like coconuts mixed with whatever flowery perfume she has on but I sink into it. If anyone has my back it’s her. “Thanks, Jo. We’ll be back early.”
“No, we won’t!” Bella chimes from behind her and Willow rolls her eyes again.
“Text me,” I say, squeezing her.
When I’m back in my room I try to forget that Damien’s having a party at all. One he didn’t invite me to. One I’m not welcome at. I don’t need to be at Damien’s mansion anyway, right? The key I buried in my drawer calls me but I try to ignore it. Here, in my room is where I need to be. Nose in my books. Eyes on the prize. That scholarship.
I’m settling into another chapter when I hear giggles and the sound of footsteps going down the stairs. Out of curiosity, I head into the hallway, watching through the window by the stairs. I’m wondering who this sophomore is that’s picking up my sister. With the curtain pushed to the side, I can make out Willow and Bella heading to a Maserati. It’s as sleek and shiny as a silver bullet.
Tying my hair to the top of my head in a sloppy bun, I squint. My jaw clenches when a tall guy gets out of the passenger’s seat, followed by a stocky guy getting out of the driver’s, welcoming the girls. My eyes narrow.
For fucks sake, it’s a couple of ERA jocks. Not a sophomore girl at all.
Luca Ferraro and his attempt at being a criminal settle into my brain. It makes me clench my fists, makes my blood go cold. Fuck. I know what these jocks are capable of. I don’t want my sister at a party without me.
I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize I’m chasing after her. I’m livid. I can’t believe she lied to me. Not that I haven’t kept my fair share of secrets but still … she lied to me.
Opening the door, I call her name but I’m too late. The car speeds away.
“Miss Rowland, it isn’t summertime in the Hamptons,” Vincent, the Archibalds’ housekeeper, calls from behind me. “Close the door!” Rolling my eyes I turn around, slamming it shut.
Ignoring him, I make my way back up the stairs. I want to forget what I saw. Want to ignore the fact that my sister is on the way to King’s party with two jocks I don’t know. The door slams when I get to my room and I pace back and forth, my boots thudding against the floor.
Turning up the volume on my speaker, I try to get lost in the music, but my eyes keep glancing at my watch. Inhaling, my breath is short, my mind racing way too fast to slow down.
Fuck.
Reaching for my phone, I dial Allie. She picks up on the second ring while I rummage through my drawer of socks for the key. How did Holly find this many different types of socks?
“Oh, thank god,” Allie says when she answers. “Just one second.” Her voice gets muffled. “Mom, I have to take this.” Her weird answer stalls me as I try to make out the sounds in the background. I hear the chime of a door before the rustling wind. “Thank fuck!”
This gets me to stop moving, the phone sandwiched between my ear and shoulder. “You alright?”
“No! God, my mom wants to spend quality time but it’s just an excuse to take herself shopping.”
Glancing at the time on my watch again, I confirm, “It’s past nine. Aren’t stores closed right now?”
“Not for the wife of Hugo Perez,” she sighs. “We could be here for hours and no one would say anything.”
“So, you’re not free tonight?”
“‘Fraid, not. Why? What’s up?”
Shit. If I’m doing this, I need backup. “Where’s Nate?”
“With Carlos. They’re going off on a volunteer mission so they’re getting prepared. Though saying that now, I think getting prepared means boning.”
I’m about to give up, my fingers grazing the key. Willow should be able to have her fun without her social outcast older sister intervening. And it looks like the universe agrees. Even if being at that mansion would give me a chance to figure out if this key belongs where I think it does, none of my friends are available. I should take this as a sign to resign to my bed and ease my mind for tomorrow.
“Jo?” Allie shakes me out of my thoughts as a beep chimes through the phone.
Christian’s name comes acro
ss the screen and maybe I judged the situation too soon, “I gotta go.” Hanging up Allie’s call, Christian’s voice comes through the phone, hip-hop playing in the background.
“Oh, shit, hey,” Christian’s voice sounds distant before I hear a bit of shuffling around. “Didn’t think you’d pick up.” His voice is clearer now, smooth and deep through the phone.
“What’re you doing right now?” I ask.
“I … well, I’m getting ready to go to King’s,” Christian sighs. “He’s having a—”
“Party,” I finish.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“My sister just left in a Maserati with Bella and two jacked guys from your circle.”
Christian pauses, mumbling, “Maserati … Maserati … wait, the Hawthorne brothers? From the team?”
“I knew they were seniors!”
“So, you want me to keep an eye on her?”
“No, come pick me up.” I’m already out of my joggers, one long leg through a pair of ripped jeans. “You just got yourself a date, Perez.”
Six
Christian smells like a mix of wood and fresh cotton.
Like what I imagine an Old Spice commercial to smell like.
While my anxiety is higher than the President’s blood pressure, the smell of his cologne is calming. My thoughts are moving way too fast to comment on his crisp white sweater or his white as fuck Converse.
I’m focused on one thing. My sister.
Okay, and the key burning a hole through my leather jacket.
“You okay?” Christian’s hand comes to my lap, his Jag coming to a stop. It’s warm as always, even through the denim. He takes a peek through the window. “We can always go back. You know what? You’re right. We should go.”
We’re in the driveway at the King mansion and from where I’m sitting you couldn’t tell anyone died. What I’m seeing reminds me of the first time I came here. Students scattered around the lawn. I can already hear the bass booming from inside, the splash of a pool even though it’s almost winter.